Raja Alem - The Dove's Necklace

“Hmph,” Sheikh Muzahim snorted. “How these birdbrained women dream!”

“My father, though, he adopted the Yemeni and took him to the venerable memorizers of Meccan lineages, al-Qurashi and one of the sons of Na’ib al-Haram. They saw that he carried the ancient blood and features, and they were ready to testify to his lineage, especially after they heard my husband talk about the moon-shaped birthmark on his mother’s palm.” She looked wistfully at the henna moon on her own palm, which defied all the neighborhood’s customs and traditions. “He told me that this moon here used to remind him of the one on his mother’s hand.” She showed Nasser her palm, ignoring Sheikh Muzahim’s snarling derision. “What I gathered was that my husband was descended from Mecca’s devoted servants who’d gone to Yemen in search of the key.”

“What key?”

“He showed me a drawing of the oldest key to God’s house. They said that an Iranian pilgrim once had stolen the key and fled to Yemen with it. Mecca’s most loyal servants, among them the Shayba clan, went looking for it, but the happy land of Yemen stole their hearts and they married Yemeni women, had children there, and never returned.”

“But what was it about that key in particular?”

“I don’t really know the true story, but they believed it was the greatest key. God knows best. The one that the books of the Shayba clan say unlocks all doors. Don’t ask me how. Over the centuries, the doors of the Kaaba have been changed, but that key is blessed. It unlocks them all. The historians spotted that key in the drawing that my husband had inherited from his grandfather. It had been passed down from father to son for generations in the Shayba clan.”

“But what exactly did your husband the Yemeni have to do with that key?”

“It was a message he’d inherited from the servants of Mecca. They raised their children to search for the missing key and bring it back to Mecca. My husband told me that his father was one of the servants and that he’d told him to return to Mecca so that he could prove his lineage and go searching for the key. They believed that the key had been taken to al-Andalus. An ancient Andalusian traveler had either taken it back there with him or made a forgery. The traveler had gone halfway across the world, from southern Spain to the village of Solomon in Yemen, where there’d been an earthquake that destroyed everything in the village. The only thing left was the doors, so he took them all back to al-Andalus. People say that by tracing the seals of Solomon that were etched into all the locks he was able to make a key that unlocked them all and that it was an exact copy of the greatest key.”

Sheikh Muzahim cleared his throat. “The woman’s head is stuffed full of her husband’s delusions. Those Yemenis all bring Solomon’s hour with them: at sundown they chew qat and start having hallucinations of the key that unlocks all doors, including the door between genies and humans.”

I confess it does amuse me to hear them go around in the same circles like that, and their imagination always heats up the neglected corners of my mind.

“My husband didn’t come to Mecca to plant roots and settle down. He came chasing the dream of the key. His father had driven it into him and he’d made sure that all his descendants would go looking for it after his time was up. My husband was killed, though, before he’d even appeared before the judge to verify his lineage. And on that same day, Yusuf kicked in my belly to announce his presence. I named him Yusuf after his father. I wanted to pull him back into life through his son.”

“Who do you suspect of killing your husband? The Many Heads?”

“They claim to have seen his body being eaten by rabid dogs, but we could never prove that he’d actually died. He left us no body to mourn or bury.” Sorrow spread through her voice.

“But you still believe he’s alive?”

She hesitated for a moment, but then she came clean. “Somewhere in God’s great land. I’ve never felt like he’s dead. Men who are possessed don’t die. The thing that possesses them swallows them up.” The look of skepticism Nasser gave her forced her to elaborate. “On the night he disappeared we were sleeping in the same bed. I woke up in the darkest darkness. There had already been rumors of Portuguese pirate ships roaming the Red Sea and my husband had decided that that was a sign that he need to go searching for the key. He’d heard about the pirates abducting men and forcing them to work on their ship.”

Sheikh Muzahim coughed, spraying them with a hail of cardamom and sour coffee. “Detective, you know Meccans,” he said. “Their imaginations are as impenetrable as their mountains. They still weave horror stories out of the Portuguese fleet’s invasion of Mecca and Jeddah in 1541! You know, the Portuguese came with eighty-five warships and landed at the port of Abu l-Dawa’ir near Jeddah. They were met by the Sharif Muhammad Abu Nama, the pride of the Barakat tribe, at the head of legions of Meccans and tribesmen from the surrounding area, and the fleet was repelled. Ever since then whenever a young man goes missing in Mecca, they say he was abducted by the Portuguese and taken back to Andalusia. They have a hard time believing that some of their own flesh and blood are little devils who would leave the proximity of the Holy Mosque.”

A long suppressed ache in Halima’s heart was awoken and the scene from twenty-eight years ago replayed itself:

A sudden movement in the darkness interrupted her sleep. She could feel the heat coming off her slumbering husband’s body, which pressed against her own. She wanted to warn him but she was paralyzed by fear. She lay there for a while, looking into the darkness, watching the black figures fill the room. They approached the bed, and in a flash they pounced on her husband. Innumerable hands covered his mouth and stuffed him into a bag and then they simply carried him out. Halima fell deeper and deeper into her nightmare until dawn broke her screams open and the whole neighborhood came running. Innumerable hands reached out to soothe her, and hands held her back when she ran out into the street, trying to chase after the bag. In daylight, she was surrounded by pitying faces and the spiteful rumor started to spread that the angels had torn the Yemeni to shreds and fed him to the dogs because he’d had the temerity to ask for the key to the Kaaba. That night even the drawing of the key had disappeared, leaving no trace.

Halima had fallen silent and was watching the television in the cafe downstairs. A music video of song by Abd al-Majid Abd Allah was showing. For a second, her silence tempted me. I, the Lane of Many Heads, nearly started to tell the truth of what had happened that night, but I restrained myself. I wasn’t going to make it any easier for Nasser to tie together all the loose ends in his case.

“What exactly was the lineage your husband was claiming anyway?” It was sarcasm more than curiosity that impelled Nasser’s question.

“I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know what kind of fire my husband was playing with. I didn’t want my son Yusuf to fall victim to the same curse so I let the lineage my husband claimed stay buried. I remember my father used to like to call my husband “al-Hujubi,” in reference to his ancestors the custodians, so that’s what I nicknamed Yusuf. But when he needed a pen name to sign his Windows in Umm al-Qura , he chose Yusuf ibn Anaq, as if he were descended from the historical giant Awaj ibn Anaq.”

Women prattling always make me lose my mind. It feels like my heads are exploding into a million chaotic shards. Night fell on my desolate corners and to shut Halima up I covered the houses in the neighborhood in an even thicker gloom. Halima watched Nasser leave the depressive darkness after he’d gone for his customary walk around Mushabbab’s orchard. She pulled herself away from her permanent overlook and got ready to go out for her Thursday evening bridal tea-pouring ceremony.